I am a person who remembers absolutely everything. I remember being sick when I was two years old and believed (one, hopes, due to fever and not psychopathology) that tiny men were marching out of my laundry hamper. I remember the first day of kindergarten, the exact words in the note from Eric saying he didn’t like me that way in fifth grade, the way the flap of skin looked after I jumped on a clam shell in Maine when I was ten, and the phone numbers of all my friends from high school. I remember the way the air smelled in Boston on a day when it carried the ocean into the City, and the diesel smell of the streets in Europe. I remember slights and offenses and try hard to forget them. I remember generosities and kindnesses, and try to cherish them. I remember to do the things I say I’m going to do, unless I’m under enormous stress. (That’s a whole different issue).
So remembering things about Halloweens past should be easy, right? All of the pumpkins, and costumes, and cobweb-covered porches should transport me back, like Proust in Rememberance of Things Past:
And suddenly the memory revealed itself: The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane.
No dice. I love Halloween; in general I prefer the autumn holidays because they don’t happen in summer (which I dislike) and I don’t have to buy gifts, decorate the house or forget to send cards again.
It was Halloween
1976 and the movie showing in town that week was "Carrie." Back then it
didn't really matter what was playing because my Mother and her best
friend, Mrs. Mary Lynde had made a pact, which is still standing to
this day and I think it went like this, "We will go out every Saturday
night with our husbands, first meeting at one of our houses to have two
Jack Daniels and diet Sprite and then to a restaurant without any of our
children." It's only been in the past few years that I have been
invited out with them on an occasional Saturday night.
I remember it like it was yesterday – laying in bed, completely
entranced in the fiery excitement of it all. It was nothing I had ever
experienced. My senses were heightened, an obsession had begun. 
I was a weird kid. I never ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. My mother never had to tell me to straighten my room. And I liked Halloween more for the decorations than the candy.